


ACDC

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Mark of Cain, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:25:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s back in black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ACDC

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [ACDC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889028) by [gemoprod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemoprod/pseuds/gemoprod)



****

“My Queen, he’s h–“ But the Whatshername demon’s sentence finishes in a cut-off scream and a wet gargle, and as she slumps to the floor, Dean steps over her lifeless body and enters the room. Through the open double door Abaddon can see her other servants, all slaughtered, too. Dean is very thorough, very careful, and very meticulous in his killing.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” she tells him, lying sprawled comfortably on her large bed covered in ruby-colored satin. “Honestly, I have to say I was expecting you sooner.”

He doesn’t seem offended by her words. “Well, I had work to do,” he closes the door after he kicks the dead servant out of the room.

“Yes, you’ve been quite busy since you left that brother of yours and started hunting on your own. You’re quite the menace, lover.” If the name Winchester evoked fear before, now it makes demons practically flee in panic, that’s how bloodthirsty, ruthless and deadly Dean’s become.

“That’s me,” he gives her a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and casually slings the First Blade over his shoulder, not caring that it’s dripping blood on his jacket.

Abaddon stretches, arching her back, drawing Dean’s attention to the swell of her breasts under the dress she's wearing. “You didn’t come here to talk, though.”

Now his smile is a little more honest, and also a lot darker. “Not really.”

“Put that thing away and come here already.”

He approaches her, places the Blade on the mahogany nightstand and starts to undress, clothes rustling as they pile on the floor at his feet before the bed dips and he’s there, covering Abaddon’s body with his, bending his head to capture her lips in a kiss that tastes of blood and lust and pain, the best aphrodisiac that she’s ever known.

She moans and surges into the kiss, her hands roaming the hard, muscular planes of his broad back while he works on getting her dress and panties out of the way and then he’s forcing his way inside her, hard and brutal and punishing.

Abaddon gives as good as she gets, biting and scratching to break his skin, and this is no playful fooling around, she means business – aiming to inflict real pain, real damage, and she loves how much harder it makes him, how wild he gets, how he moves into her bruising, scarring touch, how he welcomes it, seeks it, needs it.

They find their release together, her teeth breaking the skin of his neck and his fingernails digging holes into the meat of her open thighs.

He rolls off her then, and they lie on the cool satin, trying to catch their breath.

Lazily, Abaddon reaches for the Blade, fingers wrapping around the bony grip loosely. Dean could use it to kill her now, but she knows he won’t, he wouldn’t. Dean’s a creature of Hell, shaped and forged in its fires, and now that he bears the Mark he's finally letting the darkness inside him out, and he isn't going to stop.

“We’ll have so much fun together, you and I,” she lets go of the Blade and rolls to her side so she can watch Dean, the violence and sinister ambition dancing in his eyes. “You’ll be my own personal Knight, protecting your Queen.”

He doesn’t reply, just hums in approval and stretches languidly, tight muscles flexing under bruised, scratched skin. He’s always looked good, but now he’s an efficient killing machine, more beautiful than ever. Perfect.

“We’ll start by getting rid of Crowley,” she says and stands up, walks to the mirror and begins fixing her dress, smoothing out the creases, brushing off specks of dust. She’s a Queen, she has to look the part. “Then get rid of all the other opposition. My reign will be unmatched, unrivalled.”

“Your plan has one weakness,” Dean says, calm and friendly. He’s standing right behind her, still naked, mouth moving against her skin as he speaks.

She frowns. “And what’s that?”

“Me.”

In the mirror, she watches the powerful swing of Dean’s arm, the First Blade moving towards her neck, and she knows she doesn’t have enough time to avoid the blow.

 

 

****

When he hears the door open and close, Crowley puts down the book he was reading and looks up. “Everything went well?” He asks although he already knows the answer, he can read it in the cruel twist of Dean’s lips, in the malicious glint of his eyes.

“Absolutely,” Dean says and opens the large green duffel bag he dropped by his feet. “Look, I even got you a little souvenir.”

“Oh. This is quite the decoration,” Crowley holds Abaddon’s head by the mane of red hair, watches it swing. The look of pure shock that is frozen on her face is absolutely priceless.

“So you like it?” Dean’s grinning now, mischievous and conspiratorial, but underneath all that he’s also expectant, waiting for a pat on the back like a hunting dog trying to please his master. Which is exactly what he is.

Luckily Crowley’s a good master; he never lets his dogs wait long. Positive reinforcement plays a vital part in successful conditioning, after all. “I love it. You did well, boy. I’m so proud of you.” And it’s amazing, the way Dean leans into his caressing touch, swells with pride at Crowley’s words of praise.

Dean was so vulnerable after him and Sam split again. He’s always needed somebody else to tell him who he was, he’s always defined himself by his relationships with his family and friends, always looked at himself through somebody else’s eyes. And so once he was alone, he was completely lost.

Until Crowley found him, took Dean’s hunger for closeness and approval and used it to train the hunter into a faithful, obedient, perfect pet. “My perfect, beautiful killer pet,” he says out loud, enjoying the conflict in Dean’s expression, well aware that while the man loves to be told he’s perfect and beautiful, he hates being called Crowley’s pet. But he never protests against it because even though he might not like it, he _is_ a pet, and a well-trained one on top of that.

And all it took was a little love. Just a promise, just the merest crumb of hope, _be a good boy, do as I say and I’ll never leave you_ , _never let you go,_ and Dean was his and only his, heart and body and soul.

Well, heart and soul, anyway. The body, though… there are bruises and bite marks on Dean’s neck that Crowley doesn’t remember leaving there, and the anger that boils inside him at the thought of somebody else touching his property almost takes him by surprise. “You fucked her, didn’t you?”

“’S what she expected,” Dean shrugs casually, but he looks pleased by Crowley’s show of jealousy, the cheeky, needy bastard. “Had to wait till she let her guard down.”

“And then you chopped off her head.” Crowley takes the First Blade from Dean, lets it drop to the plush carpet so they both have their hands free, and settles down in the large leather armchair, legs spread wide and the space between them inviting.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is thick with arousal as he goes to his knees in one graceful, practiced move, deft fingers already working Crowley’s pants open, and soon the touch of those fingers is replaced by the touch of his skilled, sinful mouth.

“Better?” Dean asks after, so eager to please, like always.

“Much better,” Crowley agrees and lets his eyes fall closed, thinking about what his next move should be now that Abaddon’s out of the way. He’ll have to clean up the mess she’s made of his Hell, reinstate the system of crossroads deals, make sure the business regains its credibility. It won’t be easy.

As he contemplates his best strategies, Crowley hears Dean moving around the room, soft footfalls on the carpet, the pop of a bottle being opened, the light clinking of ice cubes, and then a glass is placed into his open, waiting hand.

Keeping his eyes closed so he can savor it properly, Crowley takes a sip of the whisky and moans in bliss at the taste.

He’s so lost in the moment that he only hears the whoosh of a blade flying through the air when it’s far too late.

 

 

****

The water is scalding hot, steam rolling around the posh bathroom of Crowley’s hotel suite, and for once Dean lets himself enjoy it, stays in the shower long after he’s scrubbed himself clean of demon gore and spunk. Crowley was incredibly resourceful and all things considered he wasn’t even really that bad of a company, but once he outlived his usefulness, there was no reason to keep him alive and probably a thousand reasons to get rid of him.

It’s almost sad, how gullible both Crowley and Abaddon were, how sure they were that they understood Dean, thinking he was too damaged and broken to function on his own. They both only saw in him what they wanted to see, and Dean let them, used their hunger for power, their self-confidence, against them.

 _My own personal Knight_ , Abbadon had said. _My beautiful killer pet_ , Crowley had said. Well, they were both wrong. Dean isn’t theirs; he isn’t anybody’s but his own.

He’s just Dean, plain and simple, nothing complicated about him. No hidden agendas, no subconscious desires, no multiple layers. He’s not looking for love or family or power, or whatever it was that Crowley and Abaddon were so sure of as they over-interpreted where there wasn’t really anything to interpret to begin with. Dean’s a hunter, doing his job, killing as many evil sons of bitches as he possibly can and starting right at the top of the list.

And he’s damn good at it, it seems. The fact that he truly enjoys it is just a bonus.

He gets dressed in fresh, clean clothes, packs his bags, goes through Crowley’s stuff and takes everything useful or valuable that he finds; no reason to leave it there just because it came from a demon.

Almost ready to go now.

Feeling artistic, Dean spends some time arranging the two cut off heads on the coffee table until he’s satisfied with the final result. This will send the remaining demons a message like nothing else. It’s pretty epic, in its own gruesome way.

On the spur of the moment, Dean takes his phone and snaps a picture, hits _Send_.

Almost immediately, Sam calls him back. “Dude, you really did it. You got them both.”

“What, you surprised? Thought I’d go off the rails and join ‘em?”

The silence at the other end of the line is short, but not short enough. “Dean…”

“It’s okay, Sam. Can’t exactly blame you now, can I? Last time you saw me I was really messed up.”

“But not anymore,” Sam says, and he means it.

“Yeah.”

More silence follows, not as awkward as their sporadic phone calls used to be in the past few months, but still uneasy, a little tense. Dean clears his throat loudly. “So, uh, I guess I should go.”

“Right, sure.”

“Say hi to Cas.”

“Will do.”

Dean’s already about to hang up when force of habit and sincere concern gets the better of him. “Take care, Sammy, okay?”

Sam is smiling, Dean can tell, and his voice is soft when he answers, “You too, Dean.”

A beep and the call ends, leaving Dean standing alone in the room with two demon heads and a vague, wistful sense of loneliness because no matter what happened between them, Dean will never stop missing his brother.

Doesn’t mean he can’t handle being on his own, though. It took some time getting used to, but he’s fine.

He’s actually better like this, because while hunting alone means he doesn’t have Sam to watch his back, it also means he doesn’t have to watch Sam’s back, doesn’t have to split his attention between fighting the nasties and worrying about Sam or anyone else he ever hunted with and cared about. He’s stronger like this, no weak spot, no Achilles heel. Independent and invulnerable in ways he wasn’t before.

It might sound strange, but for the first time in his life Dean feels completely free. It’s just him and the Impala and the road, and of course also the monsters waiting to be put down by Dean’s Colt and his Blade.

He’s already itching for a new hunt; he has his eyes on a nest of vamps in Montana. Oh yeah, heads will roll.

There’s only one last thing he has to take care of first.

 

 

****

A thunderstorm is coming and the bees are restless, buzzing as they hurry to hide in the hives.

Even Cain is restless. Something else than a storm is approaching, he can feel it in his blood and in the throbbing skin of his right forearm where the Mark used to be.

He’s just getting a beer from the fridge when he hears the deep rumble of an engine outside, so instead of one bottle he takes two, sits down at the table and waits.

“Dean.”

“Cain.” The hunter nods in greeting, eyes traveling around the room in a routine check for any possible dangers, his grip on the Blade firm and familiar as if the weapon always belonged to him, and Cain feels a small pang of sentimental jealousy. Dean walks in, grabs a chair and sits down, accepting the offered beer from Cain and taking a long pull. “This is good stuff.”

“There’s more in the fridge.”

“Awesome.”

A pause.

“You’ve been a busy bee lately.”

Dean’s lips quirk into a smirk. “What, you been reading stuff on demon bathroom walls again?”

“Actually, yes. You wouldn’t believe some of the things they write about you.”

The smirk turns into a wide, full-blown grin. “I think I would, considering I wrote some of that stuff myself.”

Cain grins back. “I wrote some of it too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Dude, that’s cool.”

They don’t say anything after that, just drink in companionable silence.

Cain uses the opportunity to openly observe the hunter. Dean looks good, like he’s more himself than when they first met. Sharp and focused, but at the same time also strangely relaxed, at ease.

He can’t help asking though, “What happened to the beard?”

“Shaved it.”

After a while, Dean gets up and brings them two more beers. Cain notices that he even moves differently, energetic and unapologetic, with calm, quiet confidence.

“You don’t seem to be overly affected by the Mark.”

“You mean the darkness? The bloodlust?” Dean snorts, then shrugs. “I’ve always had that, always dealt with that. Now there’s just more of it. I can handle it.”

The hunter talks about it as if it’s no big deal, but it is, and they both know it. He has a beast inside him, violent and ferocious, and reining it in is a difficult task. It would be so easy to just succumb to its demand for blood, to unleash it and let it go on rampage. But Dean doesn't, and he won't. He still retains his sense of purpose, of right and wrong. For now, anyway.

“It won’t get easier with time,” Cain says slowly, speaking from experience. “It will only get worse.”

Dean nods, taking the warning seriously. “I kinda figured.”

“I had Colette to ground me. Her, and then her memory. Maybe you should also find–“

“No.”

“What about your brother?”

“No.” Dean is clearly adamant about this. “Sam wanted me to stop playing the heroic, protective big brother. The only way I could do that was if I wasn’t with him anymore. So we split, for good.” He doesn’t sound bitter or angry about it though, his tone matter-of-fact but not blank in that way that would indicate he’s trying to hide anything. The hunter meets Cain’s gaze. “Hey, at least it’s better than having to kill him, right?”

“You have no idea.” Cain can still see the disbelieving shock mixed with betrayal and pain on Abel's face just as clearly as the day he stabbed his brother to death, thousands of years ago. Suddenly it hits him. He's tired; old and so very, very tired. His eyes are inevitably drawn to the Blade resting on the table.

Dean notices. “So you really want me to do it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Right now?”

“No, let’s finish the beer first.”

But the silence that follows isn’t easy and companionable anymore; it’s heavy with the promise of an end that Cain’s been waiting for ever since Colette’s death.

“What are you going to do next?” Cain asks to while away the time.

“Well, now that the big demon bosses are gone…” There’s pride in Dean’s voice, well-deserved pride. “I’m thinking I'd like to hunt me down some angels.”

And so Cain listens to Dean talking animatedly about his plans of killing the last remaining archangel and an angel named Gadreel. The man radiates enthusiasm, energy and determination, so young and full of life that Cain has to suppress another pang of jealousy.

He feels relieved when Dean finally puts his empty beer bottle on the table. Cain already finished his a while ago.

It’s time.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

They stand up.

Dean picks up the Blade.


End file.
